


a string of pearls guiding us home

by katsukiy



Series: tumblr prompts [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Ballet, Bathing/Washing, Body Worship, Canon Compliant, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Bliss, Established Relationship, Fluff, Ghibli Movies, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Makkachin being the most good boy on earth, Married Life, Skype calls, body image issues, doing house chores together, doting husband viktor, happy crying, some regular angst, this will literally be a fluff galore, viktor sings along badly to pop songs, yurio loves them (not so) secretly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-10-19 04:31:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10632252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katsukiy/pseuds/katsukiy
Summary: (auto-conclusive prompts&drabbles)A peek in the domestic life of Viktor and Yuuri.Ch. 3:Viktor’s humming an indistinct tune under his breath, dipping soapy fingers into black locks, and Yuuri closes his eyes and lets his mind drift, toes twitching underwater in time with the rhythm.





	1. Real friends tell each other when they have something in their teeth

**Author's Note:**

> These will be auto-conclusive snippets of domestic life I'll come up with. I don't know how many there will be, because I have _ideas_ *drums beating with doom in the background  
>  The rating and tags will change accordingly.  
> The title is from the poem "[Until we could](https://assets.documentcloud.org/documents/1303166/until-we-could-by-richard-blaco.pdf)" by Richard Blanco, of which I absolutely recommend the reading.

One would think that, after years of loving relationship, the power couple’d have grown used to separations - not that there were many, to begin with. But even after retirement, the memo that they were a package deal still escaped some people’s knowledge, although mostly the ones that lived under a rock. So it was a rare occurrence, but sometimes they were called to skate in different parts of the world, or just one of them was, and they'd have to deal.

 

This was one of those times.

 

Yuuri was still in St Petersburg, and Viktor was in America for an ice show.

He’d be there only a week, but it seemed to them both like a grueling amount of time to spend separated. They were cheesy, okay, but it was also cute and wonderful to still feel like that after so much time.

 

Yuuri scratched his nose and smiled to the little screen of his phone.

“Yuuri!” Viktor called from the speakers, his grainy face beaming “how was your day?”

 

As Yuuri talked about his lazy day, spent mostly doing chores, indulging Makkachin, and playing on his DS, he yawned and stretched out on the bed. It was almost three am already, because he had had to wait for Viktor to be done and the time zones were always unmerciful.

Viktor cheerfully replied back with his own report of the day, divided between rehearsals and interviews, looking tired but satisfied, like only a good day on the ice could leave him.

 

A comfortable lull fell on the conversation after a while, and Yuuri felt sleepy and happy and stupidly in love.

Viktor, though, was conflicted about something. He had opened his mouth and closed it twice already, like it was painful not to say what he wanted but he also didn't really want to deal with the consequences. It was an expression Yuuri knew intimately, because Viktor always looked like that when he critiqued Yuuri’s cooking, or the way he folded socks.

 

“Come on, what is it?” he inquired gently, his eyebrows arched.

Viktor flinched minutely, looking surprised. Sometimes he forgot how much Yuuri had grown to understand him. At least, he had the graciousness of looking sheepish. “Do you really want me to say it?”

 

Yuuri sighed. “Of course I do. No matter what it is, it's gonna be okay,” he had grown so confident of their relationship during these months, Viktor felt like his heart would burst with happiness.

He took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said, his face now definitely pained “Youhavesomethinginyourteeth.”

 

When Yuuri just looked confused, he repeated, this time slower, “You have something- in your teeth” he averted his eyes, mercifully, because he knew Yuuri would be blushing. “I didn't want to say it because then you’d stop smiling, but…” he trailed off, and the call closed.

 

He just stared at the lock screen (a photo of Yuuri sleeping peacefully on the sofa in his Russia jacket, Makkachin at his feet) for a while, too stunned to move, then unlocked the phone again and pressed on the call button. Fruitlessly, because no one replied. Oh god.

He slumped on his hotel bed, looking sadly at the ceiling. Why couldn't he ever _shut up_?

 

After a minute of quiet, dramatic brooding, his phone lit up again. With a sigh of relief, he noted it was Yuuri and accepted the call.

 

His husband looked more awake than before, and embarrassed, the blood making his face glow to the tip of his nose. But he also looked resigned.

“I brushed my teeth,” he confessed, and Viktor really had to laugh.

 

“Yuuri!” he pouted “you left me thinking you’d divorce me just to _brush your teeth?_ ”

It was Yuuri’s turn to laugh. “You drama queen,” he said, fondly. “It was _rude_ , but I wouldn't divorce you for something like that.”

 

“It wasn't _rude!_ ” Viktor protested “It was me being useful! And caring for your appearance!” at Yuuri’s pointed expression, he lolled his head to the side “also, it kinda bugged me,” he conceded. “A whole lot, okay,” he admitted again, his nose scrunched up. “I’m sorry, Yuuri?” he tried, really mournful.

Yuuri just nodded, his lips slightly curved up, and yawned again. He glanced around the room, probably spotting Makkachin curled up somewhere in the vicinity, and remained silent for a while. “I miss you so much,” he whispered in the end, looking suddenly lost.

 

Viktor's childish expression sobered instantly, mouth curling into an impossibly soft, rueful smile of his own. “Oh, _zolotse_ , I miss you too.”

Yuuri’s eyes were getting shiny.

 

“Don’t cry, little star,” Viktor urged, his face getting impossibly closer to the camera “I’m coming back as soon as I can, I’ll reschedule my flight to the earliest I can manage after the ice show, I promise.”

Yuuri sniffled, and nodded again.

 

“And we’ll hear from each other tomorrow, okay? I’ll text you as soon as I'm awake and we’ll Skype again in the afternoon,” he continued, pleading, but his eyes were getting misty too.

 

Yuuri seemed to set his shoulder straighter at that, and his eyes cleared. “Okay,” he said, and smiled. They simply looked at each other for a while, just breathing. Yuuri sighed, blinked sleepily. He looked reluctant to go, but also too tired to stay. “Sweet dreams?” he offered, softly.

 

Viktor beamed back. “You too, _kotyonok_. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Yuuri said. Just as he was about to close the call, he added, more of a mumble than anything else “Vitya? Come back to me soon” and pressed the end button.

 

Viktor did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _zolotse_ = gold  
>  _kotyonok_ = kitten  
>  I'm so down for russian pet names!  
> Okay, so, this is a thing that actually happened. These two probably have separation anxiety like Agapornis birds. Also, it is bugging to see someone having something stuck in their teeth and not saying it, poor Viktor.  
> 


	2. Aftertaste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri pretends to think for a while, then very seriously declares “Banana yogurt.”

“I brushed my teeth but I still taste like banana yogurt,” Viktor says, and scrunches up his nose.

 

 _Oh no_ , Yuuri thinks, _he’s so adorable_.

He cocks his eyebrow, though, and smiles, opening his arms wide from where he’s propped up on the couch.

“Taste test?” he proposes, a little sheepishly, and Viktor’s face does that thing where it gets bright as a star with delight.

 

“So bold, Yuuri!” he exclaims, and literally launches himself into his arms.

Yuuri laughs, his nose reddening a little, and will he ever get used to this?

 

Viktor smacks a noisy kiss on his nose, settles more comfortably in his lap and winds his arms around his neck, getting so marvelously closer.

Yuuri watches his husband dangle adorably his feet out of the couch, then tip his head to the side with an expectant expression.

“Well?” he says, and puckers up his lips, closes his eyes, chin up.

 

Yuuri chuckles, presses a peck on his mouth, then retracts.

Viktor whines. “That’s no taste test,” he complains, petulantly, his eyes still closed, so he can't see the sparkle in Yuuri’s eyes when he kisses him again, for real this time.

Viktor smiles, and then opens his lips to let Yuuri lick into his mouth.

 

He gets even more comfortable on his lap as they explore each other, kitten licks and soft presses, unrushed.

At some point, Viktor breathes through his nose, breaks the kiss and grins.

“What do you say?” he inquires, playfully.

 

Yuuri pretends to think for a while, then very seriously declares “Banana yogurt.”

 

Viktor sputters. “So mean!”

He looks amused, but also a little put out “Should I brush them again?”

 

Yuuri manages to keep his face straight for like two seconds before grinning. “I was just kidding, Vitya,” he assures. “You taste good,” he adds, for good measure, and has no time to get embarrassed about it because Viktor kisses him again, more enthusiastic.

 

His torso, clad in a super soft and worn gray t-shirt, presses against his, and Viktor is well built, the firmness of his pecs and abs clearly felt through the thin material. His hips are so small, and Yuuri loves putting his hands on them, feeling the bones with the tip of his fingers. Viktor likes it too, because he arches and sighs into the kiss, breaking it only to press his nose on Yuuri’s neck.

 

“Yuuri, my love,” Viktor whispers, soft as a cloud. There's no follow up to the statement, just Viktor tasting the sound and shape the words have on his lips.

 

Yuuri wants it forever. He wants Viktor to call him every pet name that ever existed on the earth, even the weirdest ones, because they become easily the best when Viktor says them. He wants him to make up new words just for him, because the feelings they have, between them, are hardly describable, so ample and deep there's no way a string of nouns and verbs can successfully convey them.

 

He woves his fingers through his husband's hair, breathes. The silence is comforting. And even though they probably should move from the couch, get some sleep, Yuuri can't find it in himself to move away. He likes it here.

 

They get lost into each other so often still, even after all this time, like a soap bubble falling upon them each time they’re unguarded enough. It makes everything disappear with it, Yuuri’s worries and Viktor’s fears, the menial tasks of life forgotten, until there’s just them and the air they share, their hands and skin in contact, their bodies pressed together.

 

At last, it’s Viktor that breaks it. He moves his head to peer at Yuuri behind his bangs, and grins. “Y _uu_ ri,” he calls, stretching the central sound, like he needs to call him to have his attention, like he doesn't know that he always has it, always the center of his focus. “What are we making tomorrow for dinner?”

 

Yuuri pretends to think about it, his lips curled upward a little. “Hmm, I don't know,” he puts his index finger on his mouth, a habit he took from Viktor, taps it two times. “No banana desserts, that’s for sure.”

 

It takes a moment for Viktor to understand the joke and school his face in fake outrage, one would think his favored career would be that of an actor.

He splutters, gets up from the couch, his eyes sparkling as he brings Yuuri up with him anyway.

“My Yuuri is so mean!” he chides, pouting, linking their hands together and dragging him down the corridor to their bedroom. Yuuri follows, as always, amused and hopeless.

 

They reach the room, hands childishly swinging, and Yuuri almost expects to be pushed on the mattress for another snuggle session. He wouldn’t be opposed, except he’s also tired and the alarm clock is set for an indecent hour and they really need to sleep. He yawns.

 

The softness in Viktor’s eyes is almost painful as he tucks him under the covers instead, kisses the tip of his nose and says “Now sleep, you meanie little star, we’ll decide tomorrow,” and Yuuri does as he’s said, hiding his smile into the pillow and falling fast into a relaxed slumber. He’s so _happy_.

 

Before joining him, Viktor brushes his teeth again.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, please let me know what you think about this? And if you have any prompt, please reach out to me!


	3. Day off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor insists on washing his hair with his outrageously expensive shampoo, cuddled impossibly close, long legs curled around his hips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for [EmiAliceinWonderland](http://archiveofourown.org/users/EmiAliceinWonderland/pseuds/EmiAliceinWonderland), who so kindly requested it! I tweaked the prompt a bit, and hope you have nothing against Ghibli movies, but I still wish doting husband Viktor will make you feel better! Sometimes you just need to stop doing things and relax. Time is an illusion, anyway.

If there’s a thing Katsuki Yuuri is really, intimately used to, that must be falling. He’s been doing just that all his life, has learned the pains and the joy of a well executed fall, has been drilled on which way to turn and how to get up. He’s prepared to rise again, every time, higher and higher, tumbling down a step just to climb two.

 

They say the higher you fly, the harder you fall. Failures are recognizable, merciless, because they’re messy and big, always more easily remembered than success.

By this line of reasoning, you’d think spectacular falls would also make a great noise. And sometimes, they do. But not here, not now: that’s the irony of the unforgiving ice. No matter how hard you fall, the sound of your skin scraping against the cold surface is ridiculously faint. A hollow thud, and that’s it.

No matter if you ruined your whole life or just gained a new painful bruise for your already complete collection, the noise will be the same, measly and inconspicuous. Because the real sound is the one you make, grunting or screaming or crying, and the ice doesn’t ever want to steal the spotlight.

 

But if the ice wants to go unnoticed, Katsuki Yuuri is the one that’s truly able to rival that desire.

That’s why he doesn’t scream. He doesn’t grunt, or murmur curses. He takes the fall as gracefully as he can, quietly, almost without breathing. Lets his strings loose, and goes limp against the freezing, unmerciful coldness against his back.

 

How many times has he fallen already? He lost count.

It’s not even noon, and he’d fall down trying to make a single toe loop.

 

Frustratingly enough, there’s not even a good reason. It’s just- that he can’t focus. His head is a tangled mess of shapeless thoughts, about nothing and everything, the next competitions who are so far away and yet seem to be looming over him.

He’s stressing out, about everything he ought to do and everything he _wants_ to do, it feels like time is slipping through his fingers, sand in a hourglass.

 

 _Time is an illusion_ , a voice in his head pokes him, and it sounds like a grotesque mixture between his own voice, his therapist’s and Viktor’s.

Viktor, who is now peeking at him from above, with a concerned frown and an extended hand.

 

He lets himself be pulled up, and releases the breath his lungs were holding with a woosh. _You can do anything you set your mind to do_ , the voice tries, and his smile is a little frail at the edges when he says “It’s nothing, don’t worry.”

 

Viktor doesn’t reply. He entwines their fingers and guides him to the edge of the rink, where Yakov is fake-casually leaning, a grimace already twisting his features.

 

He can’t even protest when Viktor just pulls him off the ice with him and kneels down to put both their guards on, because there’s nothing that he wants more than _stop skating_ , today. Just for today.

He’s about to feel guilty, but Viktor is chirruping “Yakov, we’re taking a day off,” and dragging him to the lockers without waiting for a reaction, helping him to change back into casual clothes, and the sound of rustling fabric and Viktor’s gentle hands are heartbreakingly soft.

 

“Little star,” he calls, and caresses his hair, boops his nose “Let’s go home, okay?”

He already feels more put together when he whispers back, “Okay.”

 

* * *

 

Makkachin paws at their legs and lolls his red tongue out, pants happily and woofs. He’s overjoyed they’re back so early, and Yuuri’s heart is clay, shapes itself around Viktor’s fingers that tug him properly inside the apartment and into the sweetest of kisses.

“Oh, my love,” he murmurs against his lips, and his arms press against Yuuri’s back, strong and reassuring.

 

When they part, just for long enough to shed their coats, Viktor smile is dazzling. “I thought about a plan for today!”

One of his hands comes up, index raised “First, I’ll draw you a bath,” the middle raises too “while you’re in there, I’ll cook something,” his thumb next “and then we’ll watch a movie on the couch! What do you say?”

He grins toothily, then extends his other fingers too, the golden ring glinting as he shakes the open palm under his nose. “Today is for cuddling!” he calls, and giggles.

 

Yuuri’s eyes get big and his mouth curls in a fond smile without him even realizing. There’s only a thing he could object, but Viktor has a point. A hint of regret must pass on his face, though, because Viktor tips his head to the side and makes and inquisitive noise.

“Ah! Of course we could also bathe together, if that’s what you want,” he assures, and Yuuri flushes, because that’s exactly what he was thinking. It’s almost scary how deeply Viktor has come to understand him.

He’s woven himself into the creases of his soul, growing ivy into the cracks, and it’s Yuuri who let him - and he’s never, not once, regretted his choice.

 

They shed their clothes quickly, Yuuri putting them in the laundry basket while Viktor fills the tub.

 

It's almost ridiculous, sharing his space with Viktor so comfortably. He’ll probably never get used to it, because Viktor is bright as the sun, blinding, even now. And seeing him buck naked, already submerged halfway into the water, arms outstretched invitingly towards him, sends a pang of almost painful relief in his heart.

 

Viktor insists on washing his hair with his outrageously expensive shampoo, cuddled impossibly close, long legs curled around his hips. He’s humming an indistinct tune under his breath, dipping soapy fingers into black locks, and Yuuri closes his eyes and lets his mind drift, toes twitching underwater in time with the rhythm.

When they’re both admittedly more than clean enough, they just stay there, pressed against each other, dripping, until the water gets cold and the pads of their fingers get wrinkly and soft, thing that always delights Viktor to no end.

 

Feeling floaty, Yuuri accepts the freshly washed clothes Viktor pushes into his hands, and if they’re suspiciously bigger than usual, almost like they’re not _his_ \- he can clearly recognize the worn material of Viktor’s favourite white t-shirt, the one he could practically swim into - that’s a secret Yuuri is ready to keep, because they’re also soft and smell delicious.

 

As it turns out, they really don’t want to cook. “It’s _your_ day off, I’ll do it” Viktor tries valiantly, shuffling his now socked feet to the kitchen, but just as he’s opening a cupboard, Yuuri noses at his neck and “I’m not even hungry yet, let’s order take out?”

 

Viktor turns around. “Yuuri, I love you so much,” he sighs, seemingly awestruck. Big hands frame his face, delicately, thumbs at the corner of his eyes, and Viktor’s mouth closes softly first against the tip of his nose, then all over the rest of his skin, peppering it with butterfly kisses. Yuuri giggles, blushes wildly and doesn’t even try to get away.

 

They end up on the couch, tv tuned on some rerun of an old drama that they both don’t care the slightest about, Makkachin a fluffy, warm lump of fur curled up at their feet. Viktor is twirling Yuuri’s hair between his fingers, nose cold against his nape, still humming broken notes. The melody is starting to get shape, and when Yuuri finally recognizes it, he smiles.

 

“I know what I want to watch,” he chuckles, and ignores Viktor’s whine when he raises up and away from his arms.

“Two minutes,” he promises, and skips down the corridor and into the bedroom to retrieve his laptop.

 

When the familiar blue frame lights up the screen, Viktor squeals. “Howl’s Moving Castle?”

They have this inside joke that Viktor would totally be the Howl to Yuuri’s Sophie: for one, he’d be dramatic enough about his hair to summon dark spirits and suddenly faint. If he had the possibility, there’s no guarantee he wouldn’t have already.

 

Also, don’t tell Viktor, but Yuuri has had the biggest crush on Howl since he first saw the movie, a fresh faced kid with sparkly eyes and still a reasonable amount of ice skating paraphernalia - you _could_ tell him, because they’re actually scarily similar and Viktor kind of already knows, but he’d make a (fake) scene about being jealous anyway.

 

While Viktor mouths Howl’s lines in his ear with a theatrical pitch, Yuuri can’t help but think about how he’s grateful this is his life.

Of course he still has a lot of things to do, things he’ll worry about no matter what, most probably tomorrow first thing in the morning, but he has Viktor, now and possibly forever - and for all the moaning about him not being able to use magic ( _why can’t I transform into a bird too? Wouldn’t that be cool? I’d take you with me anywhere, of course!_ ), he actually has the best power Yuuri could ask for: the one to make Yuuri stop in his frantic, panicked tracks, and _breathe_.

No matter how many times he may chant it in his head, Viktor is the only one that makes him believe that he can do anything, that they have all the time in the world.

 

“ _That’s right, don’t be scared,_ ” Viktor quotes, delightedly, and it’s about Howl and Sophie floating joyously on the heads of clueless citizens, but when Yuuri settles more comfortably against his husband’s chest and whispers “I’m not” they both know he’s not talking about that at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, okay. Viktor is the perfect husband, and he's also totally Howl. If only I had the strong will to actually write the au... cough. So, I had a lot of fun with this one!  
> The scene cited is [this](https://68.media.tumblr.com/450c1ab79ff2d45232eeafcb8ab1f141/tumblr_nux93w3gM81tj0a58o1_500.gif), but I strongly recommend rewatching the scene just to hear Howl say そう、怖こわがらないで。("Sō, kowa kowa garanaide") because of reasons. Actually, just rewatch the whole movie while you're at it. And of course, the song Viktor is humming is [the infamous theme song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=31nOaXSeqSo), of which I actually listened the one hour version in loop (so it was like two/three hours nonstop) while writing this.  
> As you can see, I'm reeeeally open to prompts and requests, so if you have any idea? hmu  
> Please let me know what you think of this, it would mean the world to me!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every part of himself that Yuuri conceded him, Viktor treasured. Like being given a prize.

Here’s the thing, Yuuri is still coping with his body image issues. Viktor being less than courteous about his weight when they first met each other was really hard to swallow, even if it was later established that Viktor meant no harm and it was all a terrible translation mishap, him being hardly a tactful person to begin with. That said, clearing it up with long talks and apologies made it hurt no less and they had to work around it for months, tiptoeing around nudity, because yes, Yuuri lost weight for the sake of competition, but could never get rid of some residual fat around delicate areas, and while Viktor found it terribly endearing, it was heartbreaking to see his Yuuri being so put out about it.

At first he used to just hide from him outright, and it took some really intricate mixture of sneaking up on him and sweet talking into taking baths together for Yuuri to show him what the problem was at all: stretch marks, mapping his body like lightning, some starkly white and some red, old and new, an intricacy of lines marking the skin, on his hips and thighs and belly, making him look more like a work of art than anything else, at least in Viktor’s eyes. There was no malice when Viktor had called him beautiful, making grabby hands at him, wishing to touch and taste everything, but Yuuri had blushed wildly and escaped with a poorly planned excuse, leaving him confused and wanting.

Even more time had to pass for Yuuri to permit him to touch at all. He was carefully guarded, using clothes as a shield, and just like with his heart, Viktor waited patiently for him to open up, tentative and shy, and then  _bloom_.

Yuuri got suddenly bold, like he often did, one morning they had decided to skip training to rest. He just showed up in his room, his ears suspiciously red but with fire in his eyes, locked the door behind him and shed his clothes, all of them, letting them pool at his feet with his chin raised high, an air of defiance, like a dare. Viktor had been breathless, gaping uselessly on the bed, a fish without water, while the light of the day coming from the windows played with the shadows on the marvelous body of the man he loved. When Yuuri sidestepped over his clothes and got impossibly close, Viktor couldn’t do anything more than _touch_ , with trembling fingers, experimental, just the tips, and Yuuri looked at him, his gaze unwavering, as the caresses got audacious, surer, as Viktor laid him down on the rumpled sheets and unmade him, painting figures on his skin, mouth and tongue and nails, adoring, grateful.

Every part of himself that Yuuri conceded him, Viktor treasured. Like being given a prize.

The ugly parts, the annoying parts, Viktor wanted it all. Most of all, he wanted the scary parts, the ones that Yuuri kept so deliberately inside, hidden behind double locked iron doors, and this was one of them: the fear of not being thin enough, not pretty enough, the fear of simply not _being enough_. It was agonizing, to know that he had unconsciously fed this fear himself, and Viktor desired nothing more than to soothe those horrible thoughts, to let Yuuri know that he’d always be more than enough, that he had never found anyone more beautiful, more worthy of praise and love than he was.

So he told him: in murmurs, in whispers, late night shared kisses and praises, on the ice and off the ice, _gorgeous, you’re amazing, you’re the best thing I’ve ever laid my eyes upon_. Yuuri flushed, stammered, deflected, sometimes even refused sharply, but Viktor was stubborn, dedicated, and more than anything, he was truthful. And day by day, praise by praise, Yuuri started deflecting more rarely, started hating less, started even believing him a little.

Years later, Viktor would find Yuuri staring at himself in the mirror, retirement giving him a healthy flush, their new, more lax training regime not enough to keep all the extra weight off his body. He looked _stunning_. But in his eyes, Viktor could read the truth, the doubt of not being enough again, never really banished.

So he started the cycle all again, painstakingly retaking every step they had already took, unwavering in his resolve to let Yuuri know, that no matter what form he came in, he _loved_ him, and would always find him wonderful, because he was.

_Oh, so beautiful, my little starlight_ , he’d kiss the words on the planes of Yuuri’s skin, wires of lightning like the strokes of a brush, soft edges, as Yuuri clenched his eyes tightly and sobbed, choked out his name, refusing to _see_.

He’d do it countless times more, going in circle with traces so deep they’d leave signs in the asphalt, only to see again that smile blossom on Yuuri’s lips - the one finally at peace, just a curl at the edges of his lips, unselfconscious and bright as the sun. He’ll slowly erode every insecurity, no matter how time it’ll take, for how many times Yuuri’ll need it.

And sometimes Yuuri _will_ need to start it all over again, because some monsters are cruel and undefeatable, and you can only knock them out for a little before they wake up again, but if there’s something he _truly_ started believing, it’s that Viktor will be there to help him through it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaand this was a super cute hc request on [tumblr](http://yuriplisetsk.tumblr.com), but for how short it might be, it deserved a place here. Also, we move to a tentative raise of the rating, drum rolls!   
> Body image issues are no easy to fix, but I promise you, you're beautiful and loved.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri had come to understand, by casual mentions and long silences, that the mythical Viktor _before_ , the one on the glossy posters and laughing heartily at interviewers, was just a fictitious persona created for the public, that the real Viktor then had been mostly a shadow, a thin sheet of translucent paper that sparkled in any way you angled it, but would appear like nothing more than a line if you looked at it from the sides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I imagine that Yuuri hides his feelings a lot, and smiles like nothing is going on, while on the inside he's struggling with himself quite a bit. At first Viktor could not realize about that, but Makkachin knows. Dogs know when humans are sad, so he kinda flops on top of Yuuri out of the blue, so Viktor started realizing that something bad was going on."

Even after getting over his main issues with his therapist, Yuuri found himself struggling still with some blue moods - that’s what he called them, jokingly. It wasn't often as it was before, but the irony of the human brain is that it’s never always healthy, no matter how many things you've moved past on. **  
**

It’s not like it was _that_ bad: he'd get into this state of gloominess and discomfort without reason, wanting nothing more than to burrow under the bed covers that smelled of Viktor, to crawl  _into_ himself, nestle inside his rib cage and wait it out. Of course, what he did instead was gritting his teeth and keep barrelling on through the day, training until his legs gave out and his vision glittered with dark spots.

He hated making a fuss over nothing like this, and if he smiled more forlornly than usual, it was easy to make it pass as him being frustrated about practice (because of course, in those moods the last thing Yuuri managed were decent jumps on the ice). And Viktor was so _good_ , but also terribly distracted and unobservant when he wanted to. Well, to be truthful, he _never_ wanted to, but Yuuri had always been good at hiding, and Viktor never had to _try_ before.

But even while thinking that Yuuri had just hit one of his usual self skating slumps, Viktor _did_ try, prancing around the rink, making hell of Yura’s life and giving a hard time to Yakov's bald spot just to pull a wry laugh out of him. He was like a ray of sunshine, always flickering and dancing on the spot, almost too bright to look at, so terribly alive, and Yuuri never wanted to stop looking at him, no matter if he got burnt to ashes and scattered into the wind.

But when he finally got home, battered and bruised, his mask would be too heavy to bear any longer. He’d make sure Viktor was otherwise preoccupied, let himself flop his weary body on the couch, and even before he touched the cushions - there Makkachin was, breathing on him, headbutting him in the stomach, gently _woofing_ in pleasure when he finally scratched his head with a thin, stretched smile.

The senior poodle had become a constant into Yuuri’s blue days. It was a little unsurprising, because that’s what dogs _did_ , and sometimes it reminded him sharply of all the nights crying his eyes out into Vicchan’s fur, making it hard to breathe. Makkachin picked up scarily quickly on his mood, and while he was a cuddly one on the regular, during those times he’d get almost overbearing, crowding into his space with the practiced ease of someone who was used to comforting sad humans. It made Yuuri’s heart ache for the Viktor who was _before_ , and most of the times, that would be enough for him to snap out of it and get up to press his nose into a pleasantly surprised Viktor’s neck, leading to quiet snuggle sessions and, if Yuuri was in the mood for it, some sleepy, painfully tender sex.

Yuuri wouldn't want to ruin the peacefulness that followed by admitting his previous less than joyous mood, of course. It was in the past already, why bother? Viktor would just get worried for no reason.

Makkachin would follow him for a little after, anyway, to make sure it truly was all right.

That’s what betrayed him.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Yuuri had come to understand, by casual mentions and long silences, that the mythical Viktor _before_ , the one on the glossy posters and laughing heartily at interviewers, was just a fictitious persona created for the public, that the real Viktor then had been mostly a shadow, a thin sheet of translucent paper that sparkled in any way you angled it, but would appear like nothing more than a line if you looked at it from the sides. It was easy to forget, seeing him now, so undeniably _happy_ and full of life, always laughing and smiling and calling his name, _Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri_. But Viktor, too, suffered from _blues_ , as rarely as it happened, and both Yuuri and Makkachin were quick to notice. Those days, while Yuuri fretted over comfort food (mostly katsudon), Makkachin would unceremoniously flop over his original owner and whine until he was firmly cuddled, and it sure was a sight to behold. Yuuri still has the pictures, and they always bring a bitter sweetness in his throat.

Viktor had always been quicker to raise from his ashes than Yuuri ever was, but that didn't mean Makkachin would let him get away with it easily: for days after at a time, he’d be all over Viktor, trying to groom his hair, licking his fingers and huffing judgmentally when he didn't react quickly or, apparently, joyously enough.

It was funnier when Viktor was the subject of those frantic, goofy attentions, rolling his eyes as the dog headbutted him into sprawling on the couch, following right after - but the day after a particularly bad _blue_ of his, Yuuri didn't find it so funny anymore.

It wasn't the _worst_ he’d had yet, to say, even though the previous ones always faded into each other in his memory at that point, but it wasn't good either. Even Viktor had picked up on it, despite all of his forced smiles, and the tenderness into his blue eyes just made Yuuri want to go and cry it out in the bathroom. He still powered through it, and if that night he clinged a little harder onto Viktor’s shoulders, no one mentioned it.

He already felt better in the morning, and it was a well needed day off, but Makkachin wouldn't have it.

Viktor kept shooting him suspicious glances, but only when a particular favourite bunny plushie of the poodle got dropped in his lap he dared to say something.

He sat on the couch next to him, not too close to be overbearing but _close_ , and whispered “Yuuri.”

He didn't even say anything yet, and Yuuri already wanted to cry.

He looked at the bunny in his lap, something akin to shame inside his gut.

Viktor just waited it out, knowing he had to gather his thoughts before talking.

And Yuuri did. “It wasn't that bad, I just- I don't want to make you worry. Sometimes it happens, and it will continue happening, but I’m used to it, and- and I don't even have a reason to feel like this!” Yuuri dared to raise his eyes, only to meet understanding ones, filled with warmth, so soft it hurt “I have it so good, I'm so lucky to have you and it’s wonderful every day, many people have it so much worse than me and yet- yet-” he trailed off, frustrated with himself. He didn't want Viktor to know, because this was a part of him that was particularly ugly, and bothersome, and why couldn't he be _grateful_ and stop whining about things that he had no motive to whine about?

“You don't have to be sad for a particular reason every time, you know,” Viktor murmured, a tone so gentle and raw it made wetness pool into his eyes “Sometimes you can be sad while being at the top of the world, when anyone would kill to be in your place and, still, you'd give anything to not be.” It hit too close to home, and Yuuri knew then that Viktor was talking about _before_ , his gaze getting a little unfocused like looking into the depth of an abyss. As quick as he delved into the darkness, though, he snapped out of it, now placing a warm hand in his lap, right next to the arguably drooled on plush. “What I mean to say, little star, is that it’s okay to feel like that, you don't have to _deserve_ it.”

He tipped up his chin with a finger, making sure to meet his eyes with a reassuring look, loving and sure, and Yuuri swallowed the lump in his throat, tangling his fingers with Viktor’s in his lap.

“I know you're happier now, and I am too, maybe more than I ever was, all thanks to you,” Viktor barreled on, his honesty making him blush with emotion “you don't need to prove yourself, _never_ , not to me.”

Tears spilled over Yuuri’s cheeks, too much to hold them in, but it felt so _warm_.

“You know I want nothing more than for you to be always happy,” Viktor confessed, the finger under his chin moving up to graze his cheek bone, catching a tear and tenderly brushing it away. “But that’s a little unreasonable, I admit. Don't you think so too?”

Yuuri’s heart _soared_.  He got into Viktor’s arms in a blink, hiding his face in the warm sweater. “ _I love you_ ,” he sobbed, and Viktor gripped him even tighter, pressing himself closer, tucking him into his chest.

“Yuuri, my Yuuri,” was the reply, rushed and a little desperate “I love you too.”

“I know I’m not a miracle worker and there's not much I can do,” Viktor sighed into his hair, after a while, and seemed heart broken to admit it “but I want to do anything I can to make you feel better, and I’m a little slow on these things.”

Yuuri chuckled wetly at that, because it was true.

“So could you please tell me, next time?” the pleading made his heart stutter, because it'd be hard - like it always was, talking about his feelings, opening up when all his instincts screamed at him to hide, to clam up into his shell and wait for the storm to pass by itself. But he was helpless against Viktor, wasn't he? He would do anything, if it was him asking. So he just nodded, and thought that it would be nice, for once, to crawl into Viktor’s ribcage, right into the small space between heart and lungs.

  

 

* * *

 

  

There’d be a day, years later, when their feelings would be so attuned that no words would be needed anymore. They’d just hold each other tighter than usual, kisses a little sweeter, waiting it out together. And Makkachin flopping on their faces to lick tears away, slobbering thoroughly on his toys before pushing them with his nuzzle into their laps, instead of being sad and a little disgusting, would just make them laugh and hug their little demon even more fiercely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another amazing tumblr prompt! I refuse to believe that Makkachin is not immortal, you can fight me on this.  
> I know I'm sprinkling angst on everything I touch, but- there's also fluff!!! Right, _right_?
> 
> Please let me know if you liked this? Please. It would make me really happy.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "Whenever he saw Yuuri practising ballet, Vicchan used to stand on his back legs and try to dance as well, making little jumps. It used to be a trait Yuuri loved about his puddle. Now Makkachin does it too! Without no one to teach him to do it, and Yuuri loves Makkachin even more :)"

Yuuri has always been one to bring his work home. Minako always used to scold him about it, but that didn’t mean he listened.

A fresh faced Yuuri, arabesque-ing his way through life: he thought it was romantic, if not a bit pretentious. He liked to come home from the studio and rehearse every move again, every new thing he had learned, pulling his sore muscles a little further, using the bed as a prop, jumping around the room like a bunny, high with endorphins and the want to do more, to _be_ more.

What was once an ugly scar has become a fond glow in the memory lane: Vicchan woofing softly at him, confused at first, then elated, bounding joyously around the room in circles, jumping on and off the bed as he _jeté_ -d, and the times he actually tried to mimic him, wobbly resting his weight on his rear legs and raising up his paws, only to topple over a second later with an hilariously high yip. Yuuri, young and round, laughing breathlessly and letting himself fall too, pressing his little chubby hands into the soft fur with wonder, the small body under his grip twisting and rolling playfully to catch his fingers, a rough tongue scraping and slobbering on his cheeks.

He doesn’t train as much anymore: his joints are stiffer, and the dance studio is miles and miles away - but he likes to show off sometimes, and Viktor is the kind of husband who pretends to be endlessly surprised by everything he does, which makes him giddy and happy and gets his heart all warm inside.

Viktor is also the kind of husband that likes to put on vintage, ridiculous pop songs while they do house chores, sloppily singing his heart out and shaking his butt to the rhythm, blowing all Yuuri’s residues of self-consciousness in the wind, so what if he gets into first position and brushes the dust off his arabesque technique while he vacuums? He abandons it to _assemblé_ , and Viktor gasps delightedly, claps with his soaped hands.

As he pirouettes, Yuuri can see out of the corner of his eye Makkachin excitedly running in circles, and he comes out of it just in time to see the big poodle trying to raise his paws up, resting on his hind legs only to fall back a second later with a ridiculous bark.

His heart pangs, just a little, but Viktor makes a happy sound and quickly rinses his hands, only to take Makkachin’s front paws and keep him upright against his body, whooping and calling his name “Yuuri, Yuuri, look!” as he quite successfully engages the dog in a pair dance, and Yuuri can’t help but double over laughing until his sides hurt.

If Viktor notices him brushing some tears out of his eyes later, nose pressed into the warm poodle’s neck, he doesn’t mention it. But he makes sure to let Makkachin sleep on Yuuri’s side of the bed, that night.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: can you picture Yura Plisetsky being grudgingly fond of Victor and Yuuri relationships, never refusing when they ask for his company, and even making pirozhki for family dinner? ;)

If you know where to look, you’ll find that Yuri Plisetsky is actually really easy to read. He’s like one of those sexist facebook manifesto where everything you say means exactly the opposite. More vehement the rebuttal is, the more he actually really wants to do the thing, and an insult is most likely a masked compliment (except for what they like to call “the strange case of JJ”, but that’s another story entirely). 

Yuuri and Viktor’s relationship is one of the things he’s actually secretly (not secretly at all) most fond of, and subsequently the recipient of his most colorful, well thought curses. He saves the sophisticated ones for big occasions, but he has _notes_ on his phone. 

Viktor has been on the receiving end for more time than him, but Yuuri has become a solid Yuri translator too, if he says so himself. If you asked him, he’d say that the key is, even more than in the words, in the actions.

Yuri Plisetsky, you see, for all his complaining and fake puking, has become a constant in almost all their not-dates (he keeps carefully away from their _real_ dates, and he’s learnt this the hard way), strolling at a safe distance from them, usual scowl etched on his face, phone in hand, but _there_ nonetheless. He likes to claim he’s mostly there for the gifts, and the food, because they always offer (and Viktor has no self control, buying every tiger printed item on sight and dumping them into Yuri’s arms unceremoniously, to which the reply is a varied range of conflicted emotions and a muttered “thanks”, but the blush on Yuri’s face is always very present and they both find it _adorable_ ).

Yuri Plisetsky also has a given spot on their couch, because on most practice-free days you can find him there, socked feet propped on their coffee table, pretending he has nothing better to do and demanding to kick their asses at mario kart (he’ll kick Viktor’s alright, but Yuuri is unbeatable and he’ll have to accept it one day). For the record, he mains Yoshi, which makes Viktor cry at night when he’s feeling particularly emotional.

He definitely has a spare violet toothbrush in their bathroom, and let’s say the guest bedroom has a lot more stripes than it had before, but that doesn’t mean anything. The fact that he has a favorite mug that no one but him drinks into, ever, and that he always sits on the chair placed to the left of the table, too, is not a thing they discuss.

If Yuuri has been yelled at on the phone times and times again, by now, because he keeps getting confused by russian brands of yeast for the pirozhki that Yuri makes in their kitchen (”Just because mine is a hole and I always end up making too much- people are _dying_ , Katsudon, I can’t throw out perfectly good food”) for their weekly friday dinner, which is _not_ a family dinner, _shut up Viktor_ , that, too, is inconsequential.

And when they compliment him on the deliciousness of the meal (Viktor with his mouth still full, because he’s like that sometimes, and Yuuri with a gentle, terribly proud smile), telling him he’s getting better at it, the redness of his face is just because he’s tired and it’s hot in the kitchen. He’s _not_ training hard to make the best katsudon pirozhki of the world, and he doesn’t like seeing their pleased faces at all. 

But no matter what the signs may point to, Yuri Plisetsky definitely hates Katsuki Yuuri and Viktor Nikiforov’s _guts_ , okay? He even tweeted about it once, and that’s proof enough.

Yuuri knows better than to tell him the truth.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the tumblr prompt: Hello! Can we have boys spoiling each other (and Yura) with care, attention, by being mindful, or by something material? Sneakily or open - no matter. Thanks in advance! )))

Viktor is notorious for having the biggest holes in his pockets. He follows a rule of thumb: if it has animal stripes on it or it’s purple, he buys it, only to dump in front of Yura’s front door for him to find (if it’s both, well, that’s like Easter come early). On the same note, if it’s pretty and shiny or it reminds him of Yuuri, or if he even remotely suspects Yuuri would like it, it becomes a “late anniversary present” or an early one, whatever festivity is closer and fits.  
Yura promptly wears whatever it was the day after, feigning ignorance, doesn’t look at him in the eyes and screams at him a little less than usual.  
Yuuri tries desperately to get him to bring it back, _this is getting ridiculous, why would I want this marble peacock statue with glitters glued on it, Vitya, oh my god, no, don’t cry, I really like it_ \- clearly to no avail. They’re probably gonna have to move out soon or at least rent a garage or something.

Yuuri is a book manual mom friend. He makes bento for everyone at the rink (even Yakov) ((they need a bigger kitchen)), sneakily gives advice when Yura is out of his depth enough to not properly ask for it but making it slip that he would need it, wordlessly wraps his jacket around his shoulders when he stubbornly refuses to get his out of the car. He reminds Viktor to take his vitamins, makes him hot tea when it’s chilly outside (with his favourite jam, even if he shudders everytime), lets him cry in his neck when it’s a _no_ day. He bribes him with cake at the price of eating his vegetables ( _you too, Yura, don’t give me the scowly face, you’ll never grow up by pirozhkis only_ ) and sometimes he even lets him win at Monopoli (he’ll never give up his rightful place as the master of mario kart, that’s for sure).

Yura is a little more complicated. He’s so desperately young, and angry, but his rare smiles when he gets unguarded are proof enough. He scowls, and screams, props his socked feet on their coffee table and drinks the hot chocolate with marshmallows Yuuri dropped into his hands. He mutters obscenities and then asks Viktor to help him solve a physics problem. Viktor chirps that he’ll be happy to offer his services and Yura kicks him in the shin.  
He’s always around, no matter if he complains and pretends to gag when they kiss, he never misses a friday dinner (it’s definitely a _thing_ , now) and makes it his duty to bring the best ingredients for pirozhki. They take turns to do the dishes.

* * *

The thing is: sometimes Viktor is emotionally unavailable; he carves lazy eights on the ice, takes off for a loop and when he lands his eyes are cold, distant, his smiles the dazzling, fake photoshoot ones. Yuuri pretends to be too tired to practice and gets them home, Yura in tow, and Makkachin attaches himself to Viktor’s hip while they kick his ass at Cluedo (Viktor is always Miss Scarlet). They order take out and watch Titanic, to Yuri’s displeasure, and Viktor cries for the last half of the movie (and part of the first, too) but when Yuuri goes to wipe his nose, his smile is toothy and genuine. He snuggles between them and remembers that he’s not alone, that, no matter how many medals he’s won, he’s _just_ Viktor, and that’s okay.

Sometimes Yuuri is too _tired_ , and doesn’t find it in himself to cook.  
Viktor cuts up the sausages into little octopuses and only burns them a little, but everyone at the rink still eats them and choruses their thanks to Yuuri, who blushes beautifully and hides his face into Viktor’s shirt. They leave practice early, despite his weak protests, and Viktor draws him a hot bath that they take together, lazily making swirls with the soap bubbles and humming old cartoon songs together. Yura stomps in the middle of couch cuddling with hot pizza and his cat, who Makkachin loves very much, and they eat together watching the two fluffy things battle for dominance (Makkachin wants to snuggle, Potya wants to be left alone). Yuuri lets the cushions and Viktor’s arms engulf him, takes deep breaths and remembers that he’s loved.

Sometimes Yura is closed off and stormy, his muscles sore and stretched out, his snarl genuine, the caged out expression of an unwillingly tamed beast. He hurts, feeling like he’s too big for his body, like his bones could suddenly snap under the weight he’s putting on them.  
Viktor pretends to give him nasty pointers on his free leg, exaggerates his woes on purpose to give him something to channel his rage on. Yura fumes and curses, carving angry lines on the ice, and Yuuri puts up some music on the speakers that’s just hurling and bass thumps and they soar through the air till they can’t breathe anymore.  
They buy ridiculously over saturated with sugar churros on the way back and make katsudon, screaming at the blue monster truck to get his shit together and Yura curls on the sofa like an exhausted cat. He stays the night, and when Viktor carries him to the guest room there’s the ghost of a smile on his lips. He refuses to get driven back by Viktor the day after, so they all take the crowded bus together, but in between ominous hisses Yuri’s expression softens, and he remembers that he’s enough, and powerful, and that, even if he doesn’t feel like it, he _belongs_.

  
Sometimes, it’s easy for them to believe they’re alone. But be it by ridiculously expensive tiger printed socks or food or simply being _there_ , the ridiculous, marvelous family they have makes it just as easy to remember that they’re not.

**Author's Note:**

> I love delving into their relationship as it grows stronger and stronger, domestic bliss and humorous accidents! I don't have any plan further than that, so I don't know when I'll update, but they'll all be auto-conclusive so!!!  
> Find me on [tumblr](http://yuriplisetsk.tumblr.com)!.  
> 


End file.
